all, even before you've heard a
word of her story; and I'm sure she sees it so now herself. So, if it
won't be troubling you too much to ask you to step over to our house to-
morrow night about seven o'clock, unless I send you back word, we'll
have the best parlour all to ourselves, and I believe the Lord will make
it a blessed night for poor Jane and for us all."

"It shall be so then, Thomas," replied the vicar. "I will, if spared,
be at your house at seven o'clock, unless I hear anything meanwhile to
the contrary from yourself."

It was with a feeling of deep interest, and a fervent prayer for a
blessing, that Ernest Maltby knocked the next evening at the door of
Thomas Bradly's quiet dwelling. Thomas welcomed him with a smile.
"It'll be all right, I know," he said; "I've told her you're coming, and
she has made no objection; and now that the time's come, the Lord has
taken away the worst of the fear."

The vicar entered, and found the invalid seated by a bright fire, with
her little table and the Bible on it by her side. Her poor wan cheeks
were flushed with a deeper colour than usual as she rose to greet the
clergyman; but there was not so much a look of suffering now in her
eyes, as of hopeful, humble, patient trust. Her needlework lay near her
Bible, for her skilful fingers were never idle.

Her brother set a chair for their visitor near the fire, and seated
himself by him. For a moment no one spoke; then Jane handed the Bible
to Mr Maltby, who opened it and read the Hundred and Forty-Second
Psalm, giving special emphasis to the words of the third verse, "When my
spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path." He
offered a short prayer after the reading, and then waited for either
brother or sister to spread out the trouble before him.

"You must know, sir," began Thomas, with an emotion which checked his
usual outspoken utterance for a while, "as me and mine don't belong to
these parts; and I daresay you've heard some of the queer tales which
them as pays more attention to their neighbour's business than their own
has got up about us. However, that matters very little. Our native
place is about fifty miles from Crossbourne. Maybe you've heard of
Squire Morville (Sir Lionel Morville's his proper title). He lives in a
great mansion called Monksworthy Hall, just on the top of the hill after
you've gone through the village. There's a splendid park round it.
Most of the land about belo